Sometimes, amidst the hallowed evenings and the crisp, chilling mornings, the songbird wondered how selfish she was.

While at times altruistic and self-sacrificing, generous and compassionate, there were the moments of utter violence and villainy that crept into her soul, that warbled throughout her heart, that scarred and scratched against the bounty of her chest until all at once she was as demonic as the rest of her herd. Daring, audacious, and ruthless when the world came to counter her empire, she was also rendered without sublime tactics to combat them: in some other otherworldly void, she’d managed to always throw her own companion into the fray. Imogen never complained, and seemed to almost harbor, possess, a great will to rip, maim, sear and scorch, but the notion of her little frame flying through the air as attack after attack was launched upon the pale form, as palisades came crashing to their feet and monsters roared in voracious hunger, repelled the nymph, hurt and shattered her magnanimous qualities. Who was she to yearn a friend, a partner, a bonded, for one more assailment, for one more reeling inferno, when she herself had naught to bestow but the kindly bombardments of song, of instances and junctures to assuage, to soothe, to stitch lacerations and heal wounds? And what of her sovereign, her family, her brethren? Didn’t they deserve a mender who could wield more than just hours, stretches of time, and beautiful arias? The struggle, the war, between herself was immense, and for seasons, for cycles, she’d stretched out the queries, she’d quietly muddled over the fruit of her anguish, she’d been humbled and rendered foolish, ignorant, akin to bliss without being able to protect or fulfill the sanctions of her comrades. She always fought, always tried to prevail, but never reached beyond the finesse of her potential, too demure to outright domination and power. Instead, the sylph grinned, bore the great weight across her shoulders, and pretended – held her beatific veneer aloft for all to see.

At a crossroads, Lena stared into the heavenly sky, roamed amidst the billowing fog, and wondered if her actions were right. Was she wandering down the correct path? Would the clouds open up beneath her and consume her for her sudden, indulgent qualities? Would the shadows beseech and seize her only virtues, summon her into their underworld covenants? Would she regret the choice, the decision she was about to make? Would it all be worth it? What if there were no more wars, no more invasions, or no more campaigns (a notion quickly dashed; she knew her world too well, and even she was not so inane as to believe the realm was composed of sunshine and rainbows, she’d seen too many things and participated amongst the haunting tapestries)? Could she still foster good will while contemplating the arts, the magic, the enchantments she sought? Would it make her dangerous, toxic, treacherous, when all she wanted to do was find and seek another way, another venue, another method, to defend those she cherished?

She sighed, stilled, breathed deeply into the consecrated, sanctified sector. Once, she’d begged, yearned, and asked for invocations from the Sun God – and he’d granted her wish. Here she’d come again, into their home of repose, to appeal and bid for a more sinister aspect of her ballads: to entreat them with the qualities of distortion and the abysmal flames. Perhaps he, strong, intrepid, and assured, would refuse her altogether, too aware of the price she’d have to pay, proclaim she was not deserving of his power, or knew of some foretold, augured sway in which she’d have no inclination to wield the chosen weapons. Or maybe he’d embolden her all the more, and she’d chase after the wayward dream as she’d done with so many before: pursuing aspirations, hopes, and motivations through the sectors and sanctions of life. Like a bell, like a carol, like a sienna muse, she plucked the strings of her vocals and listened to the mellifluous hum, bore a heavy tenor to her soul, and bowed into the merciless incantations of the Gods and their schemes. Imogen remained close at hand, curious and speculative herself, an assuring beacon when all designs became frozen amidst the nefarious hands of nerves and apprehension, begging not to err, desperate not to make a mistake. She bellowed a righteous hymn, and allowed it to flicker across the crackling clouds and the midnight plumage, attempting to cover up the bites of shame lilting into her serenade. “Illustrious Sun God, I’ve come to request another favor.”

[Turning in Lena’s VOTG pass to receive her requested magic:
Active Magic :: [Fire | The ability to sing and summon fire. Can injure others/set surroundings aflame. Would have to use different tones from her healing songs. ]

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